


Until I'm Okay

by boatstoesta, tmylm



Category: Dead To Me (TV), Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Bechloe AU, F/F, Guns, Miscarriage, dead to me - Freeform, dead to me au, death mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24237004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boatstoesta/pseuds/boatstoesta, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tmylm/pseuds/tmylm
Summary: A collaborative Bechloe fic based on season one of the showDead To Me. While the fic is based heavily on the first season of the show, you do not have to have seen it to enjoy the story! There are many additions, adjustments and alterations to tailor the universe into a Bechloe AU. We hope you enjoy!Fic title from Hailee Steinfeld'sI Love You's.
Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell
Comments: 37
Kudos: 59





	Until I'm Okay

**Author's Note:**

> After losing her husband suddenly, Beca finds herself forced into a grief group meeting. She perhaps gets more from it than she bargained for.

All morning, there have been signs. Signs that Beca normally would not notice, but that jump out to her so plainly now; signs that Beca shouldn’t be here. Firstly, Ryder’s cheeks had looked a little more flushed than usual this morning. No, maybe he didn’t have a fever or anything, but Beca is not a doctor, he totally could be getting sick. Maybe she should’ve kept him home from school for the day, stuck around to take care of him.

Next, the Atlanta traffic, typically insufferable anyway, had been noticeably worse today somehow.

(It also doesn’t help that this isn’t necessarily voluntary on her part—court-ordered attendance doesn’t care about signs, or so the judge told her the last time she skipped.)

And now this: the obvious sign of a broken coffee machine. At least, Beca _thinks_ it’s broken… She is positive there is no way anybody would try to pass off what she can only consider the sludge floating around in her styrofoam cup as _actual_ coffee, right? Not that she has tasted it yet. Rather, she simply eyes it with a scrutinizingly raised brow, attention shifting distractedly to the view ahead.

If she has to endure cheap coffee and even cheaper cliches, at least there’s a view. The river will be a nice distraction when everything inevitably starts to get a little too weepy for her tolerance, she supposes.

Perhaps Beca is a little too caught up in the serenity of it all, in fact—the aforementioned view—because she seems to lose herself, for the briefest of moments, at least long enough to bring the coffee cup up to her lips.

Instantly, as the first taste hits her tongue, she regrets it.

“Dude, what the—” She doesn’t know if she should choke it down or spit it back in the cup.

“That bad, huh?”

The voice to break into her quiet outburst is an unfamiliar one, though it comes from close enough by to have Beca’s attention drifting toward its owner. She is unfamiliar, too. Beca doesn’t register her own blank expression until the other woman speaks again.

“The coffee…” There is a distinct lightness to the nameless face’s voice, one that Beca really does not have the energy for this morning. In fact, she doesn’t have the energy for that kind of chipper in general. “Kind of looks like you’re not enjoying it.”

“Oh, right,” Beca nods, frown shooting down toward the cup. Her tone is mildly disinterested as she continues. “Yeah. It tastes like shit.”

The melodic giggle to ring out from the stranger’s lips seems somewhat misplaced, all things considered. “Guess I’ll avoid it then,” she says, tucking a chunk of curled red hair behind her ear. She hesitates for the shortest moment, before pushing a bright, welcoming smile to her lips. “I’m Chloe, by the way. This is…” Chloe motions vaguely around them, “Kind of new to me.”

Beca is not here to make friends. In fact, she doesn’t even _want_ to be here. If it was up to her, she certainly wouldn’t be, anyway. Regardless, she nods politely in response to Chloe’s introduction—it is really not her fault Beca cannot control her temper, after all. “Beca.”

“Beca…” Chloe repeats in a breezy tone, almost as if trying to commit it to memory. “Pretty.”

Though Beca’s brows tug together slightly, she offers Chloe a small smile, one that definitely does not meet her eyes—then again, when _does_ Beca’s smile meet her eyes these days?

Chloe’s wide gaze seems to be staring at her expectantly, as if awaiting a response. What is she even supposed to say to that?

Fortunately—if anything about this situation can be considered _fortunate_ —a new voice cuts into the feigned pleasantries of their conversation.

“Ready to join the circle?”

If Jesse were here, Beca would make a mumbled comment to him about how semi-threatening the request sounds. But, he isn’t… And that is why Beca is even here at all. So, exchanging a brief glance with Chloe, whose subtle amusement appears evident, Beca sets down her cup of lukewarm sludge, before dutifully making her way toward an empty seat.

“Looks like we have a few fresh faces here today,” the previous voice announces cheerfully.

Beca glances up to the blonde wearing the neatly pressed _Fallen Leaves_ t-shirt, taking note of the way she is now looking expectantly between Beca and the redhead seated beside her.

Taking no further prompting, Chloe sends a small wave toward the group, before introducing herself with a polite, “Hi. I’m Chloe.”

Following a brief silence, Beca registers the countless sets of eyes now training on her.

“Oh. Um, hi. I’m Beca,” she says awkwardly to the group, the distinct difference between she and Chloe’s greetings palpable. The way she straightens in her chair seems to display her level of discomfort, if the way the blonde shoots a sympathetic look her way is anything to go by.

“Well, welcome to Fallen Leaves,” she says, evidently taking over, “My name is Aubrey. As some of you know, I like to start out our grief group by sharing the loss that got me into this work.”

Beca braces herself for the first of what she’s sure will be many sob stories to come, though she takes comfort in the focus no longer being on her.

“During an acapella competition in college, under extreme pressure, I violently vomited on stage,” Aubrey begins to explain somberly. “My co-captain slipped in it and fell off the stage, breaking her neck in the process. It happened with the whole crowd watching, not to mention on live television.” She pauses briefly, giving the group a moment to digest the information—and evidently ignoring the look of mild horror displayed across Beca’s face. “And I live with that every day.”

Shrinking back into her chair a little bit, Beca is beginning to regret everything that led to her being here today. She doesn’t want to talk about it with anyone—let alone someone who anxiety-puked their way into killing someone.

“Oh, my god,” Chloe murmurs sympathetically.

Aubrey presses her lips together. “Thank you. Is there a loss you’ve had that you’d like to share with us today?” Her gaze moves toward Beca briefly, though Beca is quick to shake her head in response.

“I do,” the voice beside her pipes up. The group’s attention, Beca and Aubrey’s included, moves toward Chloe, and Beca finds that she is grateful to lose the spotlight yet again.

Apparently, Chloe doesn’t share Beca’s disdain for all eyes on her. She looks comfortable enough as she shoots a small smile toward her audience. “Okay,” Chloe begins, straightening slightly in her seat. Just because she seems to be okay with the attention does not mean that whatever she is about to say is something she is comfortable with. In fact, it becomes quickly evident that it is not. “Well, um, my fiance and I— _ex fiance_ —were trying to start a family. We tried a bunch of times, in fact,” Chloe explains, settling into her story.

Beca notes the way her gaze lowers, as if she is mentally disappearing somewhere else.

“About eight weeks ago, our baby died. It was sudden. Really sudden. I was…” Chloe’s voice gets small and strained as she wrings her fingers together.

Beca is about the least affectionate woman in all of Atlanta, but something about Chloe’s small voice and shrinking demeanor almost makes her want to reach out and settle a comforting hand against her shoulder. She doesn’t, of course; she just focuses her own sad gaze on Chloe as she continues.

“I was five months along, so we weren’t really expecting it, you know? Maybe we should have been. There were four before this. And the miscarriages… No one prepares you for how hard they really are. But this time, I guess I just thought we’d made it. That I was really going to have a family.”

Chloe is looking down at her hands, folded into each other to keep from fidgeting. “This time we’d set up the nursery. We hadn’t done that before, not since the first…” She clears her throat. “I keep coming back to this baby blanket that I’ll never get to wrap around _my_ baby. Or lift it to my nose and breathe in her smell when I miss her.” She blinks a few times and looks back up, like she is coming back to the present. Beca notes that her eyes, astonishingly blue, are a little harder to look into now. “So, yeah,” Chloe murmurs. “There’s nothing I can do about it.”

That same somber expression, already familiar, has returned almost automatically to Aubrey’s face. “We’re here for you, Chloe,” she says, a genuine air to her comforting tone. “Let’s hear it for Chloe, guys.”

Like conditioned robots reading from a brief handed out before Beca’s arrival, everyone except for Beca, who is unintentionally watching Chloe, says in monotone, “We’re here for you, Chloe.”

Beca’s is the lone voice to say, much more personally, “That sucks. I’m really sorry.”

Despite the sea of eyes trained on Chloe, Chloe’s gaze lifts to meet Beca’s, auburn brows drawn tightly together. They seem to relax a little as she looks at Beca, though. Eventually, she just says, “Thank you,” quietly, a small nod of appreciation accompanying her words.

A moment passes between them before Aubrey speaks. “Thank you for sharing that.” While Beca may not be used to this, to people opening up so deeply and personally, Aubrey evidently is. It seems to be business as usual for her as she continues in a clear voice. “Last week, we started talking about the F-word.”

Instantly, Beca’s eyebrows jump up. She glances around at everyone else, but they don’t seem to find anything strange about this—something Beca finds strange in and of itself. Out of the corner of her eye, Chloe’s gaze catches Beca’s, and Beca notes that it looks as though she’s trying to suppress a confused chuckle.

“That’s right. _Forgiveness_ ,” Aubrey says. “Forgiveness can be really difficult. It can even take a lifetime. But no matter the circumstances, everyone is deserving of forgiveness.”

Beca can’t keep the indignant scoff from leaving her lips even if she wants to. Aubrey stops talking, her mouth slightly open in offense, while piercing eyes seem to narrow in on Beca directly.

“Do you have anything to share about forgiveness, Beca?”

Beca’s lips purse, armor falling briefly. “Yeah, I do,” she nods, surprising even herself as she continues. “How do you forgive someone who hits your husband with their car and then drives away, leaving him to bleed to death on the side of the road?” Beca mutters flatly. “How do you forgive the person responsible for you lying awake every night, wondering how your boys are supposed to cope without their father? How do you forgive _that_?”

Wide eyes stare her way incredulously, but before anyone has the chance to respond, she leans back in her chair, closing herself off to further conversation. “You know what, I actually don’t want to get into it, so someone else can go,” Beca exhales sharply, trying to push her anger back into its usual box, stored up on the highest shelf where it belongs.

* * *

Time has begun to move much more slowly lately. Each day, it is the same old routine, with Beca simply existing rather than truly _living_. For the last...however long she has been forced into a circle of depression with a group of strangers has been, though, Beca finds that time has essentially stopped.

Unsurprisingly, she gets nothing from the meeting—not that she necessarily expected to—and wants nothing more now than to climb in her car and drive away, forgetting all about Fallen Leaves until next week’s court-ordered appearance.

She’s all but in her car when a voice calls out, catching her attention. “Beca!”

She turns her head to see Chloe walking toward her, waving at her to flag her down. Beca has no choice but to stop and wait for her—she’s already seen her look.

“Hey,” she says when she gets closer. She’s smiling at Beca, and it makes her shift uncomfortably. She isn’t used to people being so forward, so… friendly. Especially not in a setting such as this one.

“What’s up?” Beca says in the friendliest voice she can muster. Sensing already that Chloe likes to talk, Beca quickly adds, “I don’t mean to be rude, but can we make this quick? I just...I have somewhere I have to be.”

Intentionally or not, the request alone _sounds_ rude, but Chloe responds with a breezy smile, so apparently Beca has at least managed not to offend. “Sure, of course,” Chloe nods shortly. “I won’t keep you. I just wanted to give you this.” Pausing momentarily, Chloe digs into the inside pocket of her large purse, eventually producing a small card. Beca eyes it skeptically, dark brows knitting slightly. Chloe holds the card out to her expectantly.

“Uh…” Beca frowns, instinctively reaching out to accept it. “What’s this?”

“My number,” Chloe states cheerfully. Beca will mentally question in a moment who the hell carries business cards around these days, but for now, she just continues to stare.

Evidently, Chloe notes her confusion.

“You said something about lying awake at night,” Chloe begins to explain. Her voice softens some, and it is incredible how _heard_ it seems to make Beca feel. Chloe offers her an encouraging smile, head nodding as if to tell her it is okay. “I do the same thing.” She motions toward the card now held tightly in Beca’s hand. “If you want, you know, someone else to be awake all night with, you know where to find me.”

The offer is a little out of left field to Beca, especially because she really hadn’t said much throughout the meeting, and she was certain nobody had really been listening to her when she did. Nevertheless, she cannot help but feel at least slightly appreciative as she glances between Chloe and the card containing her number.

“I mean, you don’t have to use it,” Chloe adds quickly. “Just, you know...if you want to.”

Slowly, Beca nods along in understanding. “Alright, yeah.” She eyes Chloe a moment longer. “Thanks.”

Already, she knows she has no actual intention of doing so, but Beca appreciates the thought.

“Okay, well,” Chloe rocks slightly on her heels, echoing her earlier sentiment, “I won’t keep you. I guess I’ll see you next week, though?”

“Right, yeah,” Beca nods. Honestly, she is so not used to this, to strangers treating her like an old friend. Somehow, it seems to come naturally to Chloe. Beca finds that it is easy to return Chloe’s departing smile, even if her own does fade to something of a quizzical frown as Chloe turns to practically skip away.

She stuffs the card into the back pocket of her skinny jeans, where it becomes quickly forgotten about for the rest of the afternoon.

Beca just wants to get home to her boys—that is really all she cares to do lately, in fact.

* * *

They keep her sane, Ryder and Carter; they always have, even before all of this. But even at home, in their small bubble of familiar domesticity—as familiar a bubble as it can be without Jesse—Beca finds that it is still the same old routine. Every evening, Beca has every intention of cooking something healthy for dinner, then eventually caves and orders takeout at the last minute.

She continues to exist, to take care of her children, to put on the happiest face she can manage for their benefit, but Beca is sure they can see through it. Ryder especially. At nine years old, he is more perceptive than his younger brother. He is nine going on nineteen, and each evening with him poses the same string of disagreements.

Carter is easier. Sometimes, like right now as she hovers in his doorway, Beca wonders if he even fully understands the severity of their situation. It breaks her heart to think of either way.

“Okay, buddy,” Beca clears her throat, pulling herself from her momentary trance to make her way into Carter’s bedroom. “Time for bed.” She pauses to pick up a stuffed animal from the floor, then sets it delicately on his bed. “Teeth brushed?”

Carter wiggles under the covers until he’s covered up to his chin. His mousey brown hair that matches her own is getting too long, and it makes her want to reach out and push it back from his forehead.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Beca lets out a contented sigh. Of all the things in this world she loathes to deal with, it always seems to fade away in moments like this. Most days she can hardly wrap her mind around how much she loves her sons. She really isn’t sure she would have survived Jesse’s death if it weren’t for them.

“Ready for lights out?” she asks quietly.

“No!” Carter blurts out, sitting up in bed abruptly.

Beca’s eyebrows knit together in confusion—again, bedtime with Carter is usually much more straightforward. She reaches out and squeezes his knee affectionately. “What’s wrong?”

“I…” he looks at his hands, his voice sounding quiet and small now. Beca’s heart aches that there’s something he’s not telling her.

“It’s okay,” she whispers, taking his face between her hands and tilting it up so he can meet her reassuring eyes. “You can tell me.”

Mentally, Carter seems to fight something within himself, before finally muttering, “I don’t want it to be dark. That’s why Dad died, isn’t it?” His expression falls. “It was dark and no one saw him.”

That regular ache within her intensifies; perhaps he really does understand. To an extent, at least.

Beca presses her lips together, fighting off the tears that have already begun to desperately accumulate. But she doesn’t allow them to fall—she doesn’t want Carter to see her like that.

“Listen to me.” Smoothing his hair back, she looks into his eyes with all the quiet love she can muster. “You will always be safe in this house, do you understand? You will _always_ be safe with me. I won’t ever let anything happen to you.”

Carter's shoulders drop a little and he nods. Beca can see how tired he is—not just physically, but mentally too. It makes her wonder how long he’s been worrying about this, makes her question when that carefree, six year old innocence began to crumble away. She tries not to think about how many nights she’s turned the lights off and closed the door since Jesse died. It’s normal for six year olds to be afraid of the dark, but not like this. Not for this reason.

He finally lays back down and lets his head slump against the pillow. “Will you… will you stay, Mom? Until I fall asleep?”

Beca pulls the covers back up over his tiny frame. “Yeah, baby. I’ll stay.” She scoots in until she can lay down next to him, letting her fingers run through his hair soothingly.

She watches the familiar figure of her oldest son appear in the doorway, his form casting a shadow into the room.

“Ready for bed, Ryder?” she asks quietly.

Ryder shakes his head. “I was just coming to check on him.”

Beca glances back to the digital clock on the nightstand. “Not too much longer, alright? It’s a school night.”

He nods and turns away, walking back to his room without another word. Beca sighs and drags her fingers through Carter’s hair again. She does this over and over again, for who knows how long, watching his steady tranquil breaths well after he’s asleep. The deep unease burdening her chest keeps her there more than anything else.

Eventually, though, she slides out of his bed, inch by inch, not wanting to wake her clearly exhausted child. This time, she doesn’t close the door the whole way.

As per routine, Beca’s next stop is Ryder’s room. Again, as per routine, she finds him lying stomach-down on his bed, a bed that is much too big for such a tiny human, concentrated gaze down on his iPad.

“Hey, what’d we say about screen time at night?” Beca frowns, arms folding as she stands beside Ryder’s bed.

He doesn’t even bother to look up, but she notes the way his shoulder shrugs nonchalantly. “Thought that was Dad’s rule,” Ryder mutters, proceeding to tap on something on his screen.

Suppressing a small sigh, Beca’s lips purse. “It’s a household rule,” she says, though there is really not much conviction to her tone. Slowly, she makes her way toward his bed, perching down on the edge of the mattress. Beca does nothing to move the iPad away from him.

In turn, Ryder does nothing to hold back his own sigh, though his blue-eyed gaze peels from the screen and shifts toward Beca. “Five more minutes?”

It is really not worth the fight, so Beca eventually nods. “As long as we can talk while you do whatever you’re doing.”

Ryder’s brow raises in a way that reminds Beca so strongly of his father. She might even chuckle to herself about it any other time, in fact. Now, though, she just shoots him a half smile.

“What do you want to talk about?” Ryder questions, curious gaze drifting between the iPad screen and Beca’s face.

Teeth nibbling down onto the inside of her cheek, Beca reaches out a hand to brush Ryder’s sandy hair back with her fingers. He frowns, but doesn’t push her away.

“Look,” Beca begins, licking over her lips. “It’s really nice that you want to check on your brother.” While she has Ryder’s attention, while he’s actually allowing her to be close to him, Beca continues to brush her fingers through his hair. He glances up at her as she speaks, and Beca’s voice softens instinctively. “But you know that that’s not your job, right? You don’t have to do that.”

Ryder’s lips twitch into a small frown, before he finally locks the screen of his iPad. Shuffling, he pulls himself into an upright position, with Beca moving her hand away from his hair. The way he looks at her is much too serious, much too _adult_ for a child his age. “So I can’t check on him now?”

“I didn’t say that,” Beca says with a small shake of her head.

Ryder proceeds to eye her curiously, apparently preparing to say something profound. “Look, Mom,” he says with a soft shrug of his shoulder, “Dad’s gone, so that means I’m the man of the house now. He’d check on him, but he isn’t here to do it, so.” He trails off with another small shrug, and Beca is torn between finding it adorable that her nine year old just referred to himself as the man of the house, and being heartbroken all over again.

As usual, the latter wins.

“Right,” Beca nods, once more suppressing a sigh. “And that’s admirable. But you’re a kid, Ry. That’s your job, okay? To be a kid.” Easily, Beca holds her son’s gaze. In truth, she has no problem with him checking on Carter; it is everything else it symbolizes. It is the responsibility she feels he is taking on, and that she needs him to know that he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to grow up before his time. So, Beca continues in a soft voice. “I’m the mom, and it’s my job to take care of both of you. I appreciate the help with your brother, but you let me be the responsible one, okay?”

In true Ryder fashion—he really is _way_ too much like Beca—he shoots back with an arched brow, “Aren’t you always talking about how we should be responsible?”

Beca cannot help her small chuckle in response. “That’s different. I just want you to be nine, okay?”

Brow still arched, Ryder slowly nods his head. “Uh, okay.”

Beca returns the gentle nod, reaching out to carefully retrieve the iPad. “Alright,” she says, “Well, it’s the man of the house’s bedtime.” Beca motions toward the head of the bed, and while Ryder lets out a brief groan, he opts not to fight her.

A part of her wants to lay with him. No, a part of her wants him to ask her to lay with him, the same way Carter had. But Ryder is not Carter; Ryder is much more guarded than his brother. Again, Ryder is too much like her.

So, Beca just watches as he crawls over toward his pillows, with Beca leaning over to peel back the covers. Easily, Ryder slips beneath them, tugging them from her grasp and pulling them comfortably over himself.

For a short moment, he seems to stare, as if he is about to say something. Beca doesn’t push, she just waits it out, standing from the bed to begin instinctively tucking the covers more tightly around him, until eventually he says a quiet, “Mom?”

“Yeah, buddy?” Beca responds, pausing to return his gaze.

“You can leave my door open a little, if you want,” Ryder mumbles.

There it is, that childhood innocence, that glimpse of the nine year old kid Ryder really is, that Beca wants him to remain.

Swallowing, she gently nods her head, leaning over to push a comforting goodnight kiss to his forehead. “You got it,” she says, standing upright with Ryder’s iPad held protectively against her body. She cannot help but miss the days when it was a comfort blanket in its place.

As requested, as Beca leaves Ryder’s room, she closes the door slowly enough that she can easily leave it cracked open.

The light in the hallway remains on the rest of the night.

* * *

It is routine, the way Beca trudges downstairs to clean up everybody’s dinner leftovers. It is a task that, however small, used to be shared between she and Jesse; one would tuck the boys into bed, while the other cleaned up downstairs. It is now a task that, while still small, only further reminds Beca of Jesse’s absence.

It is routine, the way Beca pours herself a large glass of wine, sitting alone at the empty kitchen island. Truth be told, she doesn’t even particularly like the taste of it, and perhaps it is dangerous, to find companionship in the bottom of a bottle, but Beca will ignore that. As with all of her problems—problems beginning long before Jesse’s untimely departure—she will ignore it until it becomes a real concern.

The routine is leading, unfortunately, to the part of Beca’s night that she hates the most. The part where she crawls into bed alone and stares at the dark ceiling for hours. It becomes impossible to hide away how empty she feels, to think of anything except the constant parade of questions that overrun her mind. _Who killed my husband? Will my boys be okay?_

And the very worst of all, the one that she can’t ever shake. _Am I going to feel this way forever?_

Most nights she has no answers for herself. She stretches her fingers out across the bedding where she knows another person is meant to be. The bareness of it pains her. Her hand slides up to rest just under the pillow, as it resonates with her how desolate it really feels to do this, to do _everything_ , on her own.

Why she even bothers to shuffle beneath the comforter, Beca doesn’t know. It only makes the bed, large in size already, feel much bigger, much emptier—much _lonelier_. Regardless, she does it. Beca wriggles beneath the heavy covers, head leaning back instinctively into the plush pillows behind her. And Beca closes her eyes, just like she always does, but it is all routine.

It is routine, the deep inhale Beca takes as she pictures the comforting, familiar feeling of fingers running through her hair. If she thinks hard enough, if she really lets herself believe it for just a minute, it is almost as if she can literally feel them now.

But then Beca’s lids flutter open again, the same way they always do, and Beca is reminded of her solitude once again. She is reminded that the buck stops with her, that she will never get to feel that once upon a time comforting motion again. Beca used to complain, to chuckle and tell Jesse she wasn’t a kid—nor a dog for that matter—she didn’t need him to pet her to sleep. God, she wishes she could tell him that now.

As per usual, Beca doesn’t do too much to try to sleep, mostly because she knows that it is useless. She really doesn’t care much for social media, but it is company for her during the night. It is the reason she eventually peels herself from the emptiness of the bed to retrieve her phone from the pocket of her jeans, tossed haphazardly onto the chair across the room.

Her phone is the second thing she comes to, though. The first has her brow creasing momentarily, all memory of receiving an old fashioned business card having left her mind up until now. She stares at it, though, crumpled between her fingers, and Beca’s lips purse in thought.

She thinks back to that torture of a grief group she attended today. As if anything they have to say could change this—the fact that she will still be staring at the ceiling by herself every night.

The reminder has her mind naturally wandering to the only part of the group that actually made her feel anything other than overwhelming contempt. Chloe.

It is fair to say that, perhaps selfishly, Beca has been lost in her own grief recently. And if you were to ask her, she would say that it is justified. However, the story she is reminded of as she blinks at the crumpled card, the one that’d opened her eyes to someone else’s pain, flashes through her mind like electricity. The most uncomfortable kind of electricity.

So do those eyes; that overwhelming ocean blue. The way they glossed over with undeniable sadness as Chloe told her story, re-lived her own personal trauma.

It has Beca biting down onto her bottom lip, mind fighting with itself for the briefest of moments, before she finally shakes her head. The card is shoved into the pocket of the old sweats she currently wears, mind briefly occupied by the idea to scroll through Facebook instead—as per routine.

Unsurprisingly, the scrolling becomes tedious quickly.

Eventually, Beca puts her phone down, unable to concentrate. She doesn’t particularly understand why, but she cannot shake the thought of the redhead. Chloe had handed her the card, told her she stays up all night, too. Beca can’t help but wonder if Chloe is awake right now. If she’s staring at her ceiling...if she needs someone, too.

She doesn’t know if she has herself convinced that it is some generous act of chivalry that has her reaching back into her pocket for the card, but she does know that she kind of hates herself for it. It makes her feel weak, in a way, because Beca knows, deep down, that she needs someone just as much.

“Fuck it,” Beca finally mutters under her breath, gaze shifting between the screen and the numbers written on the card as she taps them into her phone.

It is with something of an uncharacteristically shaky hand that Beca eventually lifts the device up to her ear, slow exhale releasing through her nose as she listens to the low sound of the phone beginning to ring.

The ringing cuts out quickly, and is soon replaced by the sound of a half cheerful, half confused, “Hello?”

To begin with, Beca doesn’t respond. It is like she is still fighting with herself, still trying to convince herself that this is a stupid idea. She doesn’t even _know_ Chloe, after all.

“Wally?” Chloe’s voice sounds again, perhaps a little more concerned this time.

Quickly, Beca clears her throat. “Uh, no. Hey, it’s Beca. From the grief thing,” she explains somewhat bashfully.

Stupid idea. Stupid, stupid idea.

“Oh,” Chloe says through what sounds like a relieved sigh. Beca can hear shuffling, as if Chloe is leaning back against a stack of pillows. “Sorry, I gave Wally my number for...never mind. Hi.” Chloe’s voice perks up, “I’m glad you called.”

“Uh, is Wally going to be mad that you’re talking to someone else at…” Beca pauses, glancing to the digital clock at Jesse’s side of the bed. Her nose wrinkles in realization. “Eleven at night.”

A melodic giggle sounds through the receiver, and something about it sends a wave of relaxation throughout Beca’s body. She can’t explain why, it just...does. “Don’t worry, you could totally fight Wally and win. I mean, definitely don’t… He’s super sweet. But you’re good, I promise.”

There is an inexplicably contented smile easing onto Beca’s lips in response, she realizes. It feels like forever since she has had a late night conversation with someone over the age of nine.

“Alright, cool,” Beca chuckles quietly, fingers loosening their tensed up grip on the phone. “I didn’t wake you, right?”

“No,” Chloe responds easily, “I told you, I don’t sleep.”

“Right,” Beca nods, “So what are you doing instead?”

“Why does this feel like it’s leading to dirty talk?”

At that, the low-key inappropriateness and general ease of Chloe’s comment, Beca playfully rolls her eyes. “Shut up.”

The distinct lightness to Chloe’s tone is almost infectious. It is definitely helping Beca to relax, if nothing else.

“Mm, normally I just watch TV,” Chloe says, “But there’s nothing good on tonight. What about you, what do you do with your nights awake?”

It is easy, talking to Chloe. It is like something Beca hadn’t realized before now that she’d needed, someone to just _talk_ to. But she finds it easy, talking to Chloe, and before long, Beca has relaxed back into a comfortable position, laid on her side with the phone pressed to the side of her face.

“So, what’d you think to the grief group?” Chloe questions conversationally. She hesitates, before continuing, “I don’t know you very well, but it didn’t really seem like your thing.”

“Is grief group really anyone’s thing?” Beca mutters, side-stepping the question.

“It’s Aubrey’s thing,” Chloe replies playfully. She pauses. “I guess I just meant that it doesn’t really seem like you want to be there.”

Beca sighs, feeling the playful nature of the conversation give way to an uncharted seriousness. “That’s probably because I don’t. It pains me to admit this, but I’m not exactly attending it by my own volition.”

“Is that so?”

“Apparently it’s frowned upon to kick the shit out of some guy’s SUV in a grocery store parking lot because he took your parking space. So, yeah. It’s kind of a court-ordered thing.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” Chloe says, entirely unfazed by the admission. It is a nice reaction, truth be told. “I’m not really going because I want to either.”

Beca’s brows raise at that. Like Chloe had said, they don’t really know one another, but already Beca finds it difficult to imagine Chloe blowing up. “You’re court-ordered too?”

There is a small chuckle from Chloe’s side of the phone. “No. My fiance—” she clears her throat. “My ex, um, he’s kind of the reason I’m there.” Chloe pauses briefly, and Beca feels like there is more to come. “He says that if I can find a way to...I don’t know, grieve properly, I guess? He says I’m living in the past. But that if I can find a way to get past what happened, maybe we can try again.”

“For a baby?”

“Eventually,” Chloe says with what sounds like a small shrug. “But more so just us. Me and him.”

Beca nods along slowly. For some reason, she finds the response almost unsettling. “Is that what you want?” She asks, tone a little more judgmental than she perhaps means it to be. “What about Wally?”

Chloe’s gentle laugh is becoming familiar to Beca already. “Oh, Wally is not...it’s not like that.”

“But it’s _like that_ with the dude who left you after five miscarriages?”

Beca realizes quickly that she has spoken out of turn. She is about to apologize, to try to backtrack, when the sound of Chloe’s giggle chimes again.

“Well, considering Wally is an almost ninety year old man, and we’re definitely not supposed to date the residents…” Beca wonders if Chloe is using humor as a coping mechanism, but she seems to continue on breezily, clearly unoffended by Beca’s question. “Chicago and I, we just have a lot of history, I guess.”

“His name is Chicago?” Beca’s nose wrinkles at that.

“Yes.”

 _Kind of sounds like a dick_ , Beca thinks, though musters up the good sense not to say so. “Well, what about him,” she says instead, “How is he coping with all of this?”

“Better than I am,” Chloe responds easily. “I mean, they were his babies too, but it’s like he said, they died in my body. He says I have that part to deal with, too.”

 _A condescending dick_ , Beca thinks. She doesn’t even realize that her actual response is a yawn until Chloe points it out.

“I’m sorry,” Chloe says teasingly, “Am I boring you?”

“What? No,” Beca shakes her head. “I’m just...wow, sorry, I guess I’m tired.”

“Of course you’re tired,” Chloe states, “You haven’t been sleeping. You should ride that wave, though.”

“What, and miss hearing more about Boston?”

“Chicago,” Chloe giggles. “I promise he’s not a total jerk. I mean, I know how it sounds… Trust me, I do. But he’s not.”

“I guess you’re the one that knows him,” Beca says with a small shrug, entirely unconvinced. Evidently, she has taken an instant disliking to this guy. It is like she’d said, though, who leaves someone after _five_ miscarriages? Especially someone like Chloe.

She doesn’t even know what she means by that particular thought.

“Seriously, though, Beca, if you’re tired, you should sleep,” Chloe urges gently.

“Yeah, I will,” Beca says through another low yawn. “I just…” She trails off at that, the pathetic urge to tell Chloe she doesn’t really want to hang up yet lingering at the back of her throat. Of course, she doesn’t say so. It turns out, though, she doesn’t have to.

“Do you want me to stay?” Chloe asks in a soft voice, and Beca notes instantly that there is no judgment. Beca’s lack of response serves as answer enough. She doesn’t really give her the chance to overthink too much longer. “Close your eyes,” Chloe says in that same gentle tone.

“They’re closed,” Beca admits, choosing not to think too deeply into how strange and frankly pathetic this whole thing is. “What about you, aren’t you going to sleep? It’s kind of creepy if you’re just gonna sit there and listen to me.”

Chloe’s breathy laugh sounds once again, though Beca notes that it is quieter this time. “My eyes are closed, too.” There is a brief pause, before Chloe continues. “Put me on speaker.”

Beca frowns slightly, though her eyes remain closed. “Uh, why?”

“Just do it,” Chloe chuckles quietly. In spite of herself, Beca pulls the phone from her ear, tapping on the speaker option. She can hear Chloe moving around at her end, too. “Now put the phone down someplace close by, then lay back down.”

For half a second, Beca glances toward Jesse’s side of the bed, to his empty, untouched pillows. The thought leaves her quickly, and soon she is setting the phone down on the small table beside the bed.

“Are you laying down?” Chloe’s soft voice rings through the air a moment later.

“Yes,” Beca murmurs in response.

“Okay, good,” Chloe says, releasing a small, contented sigh in the process.

Beca doesn’t remember falling asleep. She really doesn’t. But when her eyes finally flutter open, she is met with the sight of light streaming through the window. It takes her a moment of blinking into the morning light to register her surroundings, to register the fact that she has _actually_ slept.

A quick glance to the bedside table shows the call with Chloe is still active.

For some reason, a part of her almost doesn’t even want to cut it off.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find Ellie's tumblr [here](https://chloebeale.tumblr.com/), and Tiff's [here](https://bottombeca.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> Big thank you to [Cole](https://bechloehuh.tumblr.com/) ([bechloehuh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bechloehuh)) for proof reading and yelling us his praises. We love you!


End file.
